Silent Reaper
by SylverMage
Summary: [He was a shadow, nothing more. A shadow of death.] Pregame, oneshot, Jaycentric. Spoilers for Jay's chapter.


Disclaimer: I do not own Tales of Legendia.

"_Silent Reaper"_  
_by SylverMage_

A figure crouched among the darkened leaves of an old, solid tree. The bark felt rough beneath his calloused, childish fingers. He sat utterly still, with a kind of grace unbefitting one so young. Patiently he waited, the rustle of trees amid the night's silence soothing to him. The shadows accepted him easily, enfolding his slight frame like a cloak, concealing him completely from the untrained eye. His light breathing was almost indistinguishable from the soft night breeze that drifted through the trees. He was a shadow, nothing more. A shadow of death.

There was no hurry or urgency in his quiet, composed aura, nothing belying the duty before him…nothing to indicate that all his thought, every bit of his concentration, was focused only on the task that lay before him.

His mission is all-important.

He could still hear the words, spoken in that detached tone that brooked no chance for defiance.

Everything is secondary to completing his mission. Even his life.

A willowy hand, its grace hiding a terrible strength, had pressed the dagger's cool hilt into his palm. The cold steel had been almost indistinguishable from the unfeeling hand that had held it. He remembered the glittering eyes, like flint, and the chilled smile behind the commanding whisper.

He is not to fail.

Not that failure was a concern. In the three years since his training had been deemed complete enough to warrant solo assignments, he had never once failed. The reconnaissance that he brought back was flawless. He was quickly mastering small skills like thievery and mimicry. And in his hands lay a certainty: once a person was designated a target, that person was already dead. At the age of ten, his hands were already soaked in blood.

Far off in the distance, some night bird gave its mourning cry, splitting the silence of the night. It was like the throwing of a switch, as at once violet eyes came to life, and in the stillness of the shadows, the statue moved. Slowly, at first, he unfurled from his crouch, the sleeper awakening. Then like smoke on the wind, he was gone.

Unseen.

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High above the ground, the guards milled about the stone walls like ants. One armor-clad figure leaned against the battlements, his partisan at rest beside him as he struggled to stay alert as tiredness tugged on his weathered features. He never saw the wraith-like figure that swept by him without a sound. It breezed by his fellow soldiers, never slowing down, never a step out of place. Like a ghost, it slipped among the watchful guards into the inner grounds below.

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His attire was perhaps a trifle odd for one raised to be an instrument of killing. An indigo sweater, the sleeves loose and long, almost enough to cover his hands, with a design of pale violet stripes, like moonlight, on the front. The long dark hair was bound into twin braids, increasing his efficiency. His eyes, wide-set in his youthful features, were a cold, hard violet that had no place in the face of a child. Once again he had been instructed to leave his mask behind, exposing his face to any who might have the misfortune to catch a glimpse of him. It was a double assurance, he knew, as the sight of a child's face would create a state of confusion, or perhaps a misguided confidence …and at the same time, it insured more blood, more death, for any who saw his face would have to be silenced…

Anonymity was a key part of his mission. That was law.

Once, twice, he may have tried to operate beneath the cover of his mask, hiding behind the fox's cunning expression, despite his orders. He learned quickly that no place existed where the prying eyes could not reach him, and many painful lessons had beaten it into him that an order given was an order to be obeyed. Thus, he became even more efficient, to spare others the ill luck of seeing his face. He became a child prodigy among ninja, an elite among even the most prestigious of his clan. But despite his skill he was not perfect, and fate had never been his friend, and so time and again he would spill the blood of bystanders who apparently held no favor with fate either.

The grass of the courtyard gave way to hard stone yet again as he gained access to the inner sanctum. Invisible, he continued past the armored figures as they clanked softly in the quiet, sweeping up the elegant steps to the top floors. Three steps, four steps, silent as a ghost, when at once the sound of metal whistling through the air registered in all his senses, and he jumped aside, catlike, landing in a crouch. Behind him, two figures separated themselves from the shadows. Though theirs expression were hidden in the dark, he could sense the uncertainty and disbelief that stemmed from facing one so young radiating off of them.

There was no time or reason for words. The mission was all that mattered, and no one had the right to stand in his way.

Like a whirlwind, he was upon them, melting into the shadows that loved him so well and striking like a fanged adder…that first, single blow would be fatal. The first fell, shuriken embedded in his torso. The second took a desperate swing at nothing; he had not been in that location for quite some time. A breeze swept by him, and red began to blossom on his chest. The expression was one of shock as the strike was continued, opening a large diagonal slash across his front. Before he could scream, his throat was cut, and he was forever silenced.

The shadow stood, breathing rapidly, but lightly. Red fluid streaked his cheek and dripped from his hands, but he felt nothing. That was all right. Machines didn't feel anything.

He remembered that it had hurt once, the constant scent of death and coppery taste of blood in his mouth making him violently ill. The wide-eyed looks of confusion and fear, sometimes even of horror on the faces of his victims, the stench of fear and the silent accusation in their vacant gazes would wake him shaking and sweating in the night, his throat raw with noiseless screaming.

But now there was nothing. He had become accustomed to blood's scent and feel, so much that he was numb to the sensation of the red liquid that flowed over his hands, and his eyes were always dry, regardless of what transpired. After all, mercy was a flaw. It was not necessary, and therefore did not matter.

The chamber in which his target resided was dark, lit only by the faint light coming from the window. That was good. A shadow among shadows was unnoticeable. His victim woke only briefly as a hand was placed across his mouth and he died silently, except for the quiet drip-dripping of blood from a single-edged blade.

Later, as the last tendrils of night reached for the dawn, the ninja child awoke in a cold sweat. With a gentle, almost curious brush of his hand, he wiped the trail of tears from his cheek and stared at the salty liquid, as though it were a foreign object. He watched with an unchanging expression as the droplet slowly trickled down his fingers, appearing to grow crimson in hue, until it coalesced with the irremovable stain of red in the palm of his hand. He closed the hand into a fist and lay down again, but was reluctant to sleep, instead staring at the horizon until the dark melted into sunrise, turning the sky and ground a brilliant red.

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End_


End file.
